Cael, tall and pale, unsteady of step but cool,
Dismounts to reaching hands. Eyes of the hawk are dim.
Helmet all wet with blood, fur coat all spotted red,
Fall into willing hands, showing raw angry wounds
To angry eyes that see how balls explosive, rend.
And riddled plane reveals how near death spoke and fast.
Now Cael, in gentle hands, speaks slow to eager ears;
Tells of the cloudy fray that only gods could see;
How three, attacking three, put them at once to flight,
Till four more by surprise, made odds with the Huns.